


Accidental Beginning

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bondage But Not Really, Crack, Gay Stuff, Idiots in Love, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mention of Past Drug Abuse, Translation From A Personal Fic, Yes again, angst if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:21:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5253218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The latest case, as often happens, leaves Sherlock with physical issues. In which Sherlock *really* wants John's help, but doesn't...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accidental Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another translation from a personal fic for you guys. It's a bit rushed so, apologies in advance <3 <3

He couldn't fucking believe this. He couldn't fucking believe that he said 'fucking' in his own fucking mind. It was a constant reminder of how little control he had over it and how that was one of the greatest phobias of a Holmes. It went back to his pre-celibacy days, when a combination of ingrained precautions and extreme luck kept him disease free in his often drug induced promiscuity. This was in fact the number one reason he'd adopted celibacy in the first place. It wasn't exactly the drugs that had the largest effect on his mind. If he was high in a situation where sex wasn't available according to his libido/preference, then he was fine. What the drugs did do, however, was open his mind. They expanded his consciousness, whether it was to slow and examine every minute detail, or speed up and put the details together.

 

But it truly wasn't his fault this time. He'd been kidnapped, the concoction injected into his veins against his will. Nothing so damaging as heroin or too much cocaine. No, the cocaine only served to keep him awake enough to endure the torture that was figuring out how to get out of his situation whilst awaiting rescue with a massively persistent erection. At first he figured it was just a reaction to adrenaline and the small amount of cocaine definitely present, then tried to explain it away with a possible addition of erectile dysfunction drugs after he'd gotten away and was rescued. The problem became that, when he first began experiencing it, his often annoying brain went directly to  _him_. His compact firebrand of a flatmate and best friend, who, while looking like a school teacher in one of his horrid jumpers and rather well-fitting jeans, could take someone three times his size down with his bare hands, let alone a bullet from far away. His dark blue eyes would focus precisely, his scrupulous hand steady as he took aim and he would squeeze the trigger almost nonchalantly. Once, when they'd gotten captured and stripped down to their underclothes, John made good on a promise to render one of their guards unconscious for backhanding Sherlock. In nothing but a cotton tank top and a pair of alarmingly red Y-fronts("I hadn't any other's clean and got interrupted during the laundry, if you recall, Sherlock"), he choked the man out as Sherlock procured the keys to the makeshift cell. John didn't stop until the man went pliant, his biceps and face straining to keep pressure in the correct place and -  _FUCK!_

 

Sherlock had been too embarrassed for hospital and had John convince the EMTs that he would look after him properly at home, even though he refused even him access once they'd arrived. He somehow convinced John to go fill out the paperwork at the police station after making sure everything checked out as alright as it was going to get for the time being according to the instructions John patiently called through the door of his bedroom. What Sherlock had completely forgotten about, so wrapped up was he in his own problems, was the fact that, not only would he lose hours from the real world in his mind palace and experiments, but the sincere compassion of his doctor was retained at almost all times. Hence the soft knock and voice that sent his whole body throbbing in its wake.  _Fuck_ , his mind helpfully supplied once more.

 

"Just checking on you," John called through the door. "You'll need to eat."

 

"I don't need anything! Go away!" He listened for a moment, heard John turn ( _bare feet which meant in his night clothes. Well it_ was _late. His usual blue dressing gown but open because of the heat)_  then retrace the three steps he took.

 

"Sherlock," the way John said his name caused his cock to jump again, "I don't know what's wrong, but are you really alright, or are you just saying you are so I'll go away?" Sherlock sighed and, with all his might, attempted to control his voice at least, to mimic some semblance of calm.

 

"I'm fine!"

 

"Not even tea? I got some of that Jasmine you like and that special honey from the Tesco across town because I thought it would help you feel better." How the fuck did John maintain his lovely behaviour toward him, even if he was being a dick. Speaking of dicks, he could feel his heartbeat in his at the unwitting thought of how John would always randomly touch him and working out what those fastidious doctor's fingers would feel like wrapped around it. "Sherlock?" Gasping his name before encircling it with charming lips he never seemed to stop licking. Sherlock had seen him casually eating an ice lolly once, as if he had no idea he was being watched. Sherlock always watched him when the opportunity arose. That, coupled with 'accidentally' overhearing him telling one of his old Army mates with whom he'd reconnected through the blog about how well he did with oral sex nearly pushed Sherlock over the edge, and he had to grab one of his pillows and push it down over himself. It was rather the wrong move as his hips began moving a little bit of their own accord, seeking relief. 

 

"Yes! Fine! Tea would be lovely!" Anything to get him gone for five minutes. John's footsteps were light, as if he was just happy to be of service. Which he usually was. The service Sherlock required, however, John wouldn't be willing to provide as it was inherently homosexual and John repeatedly shouted his hetero status, sometimes literally. Sherlock had just gotten his mind to at least stop thinking about him by reciting the digits of Pi, but John knocked and entered, shattering everything else. It was worse than he thought. 

 

The sweat on his brow wasn't just a reaction to the drugs. It really was that warm. The sound the door made when John kicked it shut behind himself was amplified by Sherlock's thoughts. It was as the closing of a jailhouse door, sealing his fate, whatever it may be, in his prison cell. John stood in only blood red football shorts and a deep blue tee shirt that made his eyes pop. He'd had an unexpected bout of extra grooming. He'd clipped his toe and fingernails and had shaved again. His silvered honey hair feathered comfortably into its usual military cut, and he smelled of his most sparingly used, more expensive toiletries. Sherlock could hardly breathe for the sight of him, his lizard brain causing him to nearly drool for just a taste.

 

"Leave the tea and go!" he blurted, looking away in an attempt to salvage his sanity. John looked as if he was about to, laying the little round tray down on his bedside table, with the addition of a lunch meat sandwich anyway, but he doubled back again and sat next to him. Sherlock was nearly vibrating with the effort of controlling himself. 

 

"Sherlock you can tell me, you know."

 

"Tell you what? What the hell should I tell you?"

 

"What this mystery... I dunno, condition is." He could. He could tell John everything and he would be extremely sympathetic and perhaps let him-

 

"It's fine, I'll be fine in a few hours. Get out!"

 

"Sherlock..." John was frowning sympathetically and, it seemed, Sherlock's reactions to his visual emotions were amplified as well. This. Sucked. Then, the worst part. "Please," he begged and Sherlock's usually genius brain was flooded with images of him doing so in different situations.

 

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE PLEASE GO! I DON'T WANT TO... hurt you..." John was understandably startled, standing up and gazing at him with wide, shiny eyes, deep and full to the brim with... caring. Ugh.

 

"You won't," he promised, eyeing the pillow on his lap. Oh shit. 

 

"Alright, fine!" He said sharply, then sighed. "But you'll have to... restrain me." It was almost a squeak at the end and he cleared his throat. So many possibilities. 

 

"What? Why? Is it steroids or something? I swear to God, Sherlock if this is one of those things much worse than you're letting on..."

 

"No." Yes. It was mostly internal, however. "But if you insist on hounding me about this and the eating thing then do what I say."

 

"Well... okay. But only if it will make you feel better." 

 

"Yes yes, I know. How very altruistic of you. Open the bloody drawer there. Hurry up!"

 

John did as he was told, finding several restraint items at which he merely lifted his eyebrows at this point. There was an iron ring bored into the wall just behind his headboard for research on bondage, specifically Kinbaku for a case. Which was exactly the wrong thing to think of at the time. He didn't much care to be dominated, but the idea of John taking control of him wasn't unwelcome. Sometimes he needed handling and the good doctor did it well when-

 

The fastening of one side immediately cut his thoughts short. He'd absently been instructing John on how specifically to use them, to loop the rope through the ring so that he was sat up a bit. Thank God he didn't straddle him to do this because his hips definitely had a mind of their own, the pillow thankfully staying in place but only because it was probably impaled at this point despite his pants. Catching on to what he'd wanted, for whatever reason, only served to make things worse, his anticipation of Sherlock's needs. He tested his bonds and found he was comfortable but couldn't escape without a plan, and all of his plan making juice was south of the boarder at the moment. 

 

He shut his eyes and turned his head as John lifted the pillow, hearing a hitch in his breathing and a quiet, "Oh." John cleared his throat and he could feel him unable to take his eyes off of it in a way that superseded medical curiosity. That only served to further aggravate things. "Did you try a sedative?" he inquired, only a little tremor to the silken voice he used as a means of comforting his patients.

 

"Of course I did! I've tried everything and apparently it just has to... run its course or whatever."

 

"So you tried-"

 

"Yes."

 

"You mean you-"

 

"Yes! I told you I've tried everything." 

 

"Okay so masturbation didn't work. Fine. I'll just... help you eat then." 

 

He was properly leaking now, the damp patch in his pants growing with every word he uttered, nearly gushing when John formed the word 'masturbation'. "Wait!"

 

"What?"

 

"I... didn't try... that."

 

"You tried everything, you said."

 

"John please!" He'd smelled it earlier, and dismissed it as a side effect. But no. The hint of smoke, the tang of alcohol... It explained the extra grooming. John had been out, probably with Lestrade, drinking, and had come home, not too long ago still a bit tipsy. That's when the rest of everything went South. Literally. 

 

John straddled his lap, keeping his hips elevated to hover just above his mound of tumescence, and put the sandwich to his lips. As he chewed, John went for the tea. He'd already swallowed and so licked and then bit his lips as John blew on the liquid then lifted it to his mouth. Sherlock took several sips, keeping his eyes shut to the attractiveness before him, hoping it came off as mere enjoyment of the food. "You should try it," John said, getting the sandwich once more. 

 

"Try what?"

 

"The... wanking thing." He nearly choked. 

 

"Perhaps I'll have to." He tried his best to keep his thoughts specifically of John to himself as the man patiently helped him work his way through the sandwich and tea. "Also, perhaps a spot of whatever you've been drinking in my next cup."

 

"Won't it react badly?"

 

"Not if my past is anything to go by." John looked a bit embarrassed by this. 

 

"Right. Sorry. I'll just... be a tick."

 

 

 

***

 

 

"This was all I could find," John said, holding the bottle of 15 year Irish whisky over his arm as if presenting a bottle of wine for his choosing at a fancy dinner."

 

"That's fine," Sherlock replied, just wanting to get this over with. 

 

"I can help you," John offered without looking at him, still helping him with his drink.

 

"How?" More sips of the now saturated tea ensued.

 

"Sometimes a... foreign hand helps... We could just try it. As an experiment. We won't ever have to speak of it again."

 

"What exactly are you suggesting?" He didn't really have to ask, because his mind had immediately gone there. But he had to hear it. The suggestion had to be all John's. 

 

"I could... get you off real quick and see... you know... if that works or helps or whatever." Sherlock was already panting a little, but automatically took in more of the fortifying liquid. John took a sip himself. "When you're out in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of so much... human suffering, you tend to jump on opportunities to counter it. Regardless of gender, do you know what I mean?"

 

"I... " was all he got out before John set down the half empty cup and ran his fingertips down the left side of his face. He arched a bit into the touch and any protest he was about to make was cut off by John again straddling him, only this time sitting down fully, making Sherlock groan. 

 

"I don't even have to see anything," he continued, adding his other hand, drawing his fingers down Sherlock's lengthy neck. "I can just... touch you through your clothes." He could have. It would have been plenty. "But I won't unless you agree." John put his face very close to Sherlock's, licking those lips and staring at his as if he would devour him.

 

"Please, God. Yes," he heard himself say automatically. He was going to stop but John was already kissing him, infuriatingly slowly. There had been Maraschino cherries in at least a few of his drinks. Sherlock's deductions paused hard when John sucked on his tongue and drew his hands down his chest, making sure to flick his nipples through his shirt. He whined uncontrollably at the gesture, nearly weeping as John allowed him to grind up against his crotch. Even through the layers, he could smell the arousal and wished his hands free so he could touch back. John experimented on his neck with his mouth, effectively proving it was a good thing his hands weren't free. He might have made everything stop with how fast he would have tried to take control and anything that would lead to him stopping was unacceptable. John found a spot on his throat and he cried out. He hadn't remembered how sensitive his nipples were and, when pinching them combined with what was being done with his neck and pelvis, it was a matter of moments before he was bucking, swearing, and calling out his name, babbling through kisses about how much he'd wanted this and so much more.

 

"Do you want me to clean you up?" he asked almost indifferently. Almost.

 

"Please." 

 

"What a good boy," he crooned out of nowhere, laying his hand on the side of Sherlock's face a bit too hard to just be a pat. To worsen things, he just slid himself down, lifting Sherlock's shirt and yanking down his pants, soiled with his emissions, then proceeded to drag his tongue over the part of the mess the fabric of his underwear hadn't soaked up. Sherlock was just finished being sensitive, even softening slightly, until John dragged his tongue over and around the head of his penis. He dropped his mouth down over it and pushed his hands up under his tee shirt to manipulate his nipples flesh to flesh. Less than ten minutes later, he was shooting the remnants of his seminal fluid into John's mouth, begging him, but unable to distinguish if it was to stop before he hated himself or to never stop because his mouth was perfect.

 

John slowly kissed his way back up his body, taking as much time as possible to cover as much of his skin as possible. Between the things he did orally to him and the preparation going on almost without his knowledge, it made it so Sherlock thought he'd never be without an erection in John's presence again. They locked eyes, John cradling the back of his head with his non-dominant right hand, holding his own thick cock  with the other so he could sink slowly into his consulting detective, a combination of suddenly appearing and natural lubrication easing the way nicely. John's expression... he'd never seen anything so beautiful as John Watson enjoying his body. He was still a moment when he was fully seated and seeming to... revel... in the sensation. Sherlock begged his hands release so he could touch back. 

 

"I rather like you this way," he smirked devilishly before licking a stripe up the side of Sherlock's neck. "Trussed up and almost incoherent." By the time he  _finally_  started to move steadily, in a slow circle after attempting several different angles to find which one made Sherlock the least verbally understandable, Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes open, no matter how much he'd wanted to watch. John had, through just a steady stream of rather innocuous words, whipped him up into a frenzy. He felt as if he were literally on fire, desperate to be quenched and the act happening so slowly he just knew he'd be consumed before it had any real effect other than building the flame. He wasn't particularly loud during sex, but nothing was ever the way it was before when John Watson got a hold of not only your mind, but your body. Sherlock could hardly breathe for the loud, gutteral sounds John was yanking out of him. He was methodical, touching and tweaking and squeezing when the mood took him, but making sure that whatever he did, it was done thoroughly. His marvelous, gorgeous, reliable, steadfast doctor! 

 

He was was pretty sure he'd said that out loud, but then everything was a jumble. Until he heard John announcing he was close to reaching his peak. It was crystal clear and acted as a cattle prod, his entire form leaping into action involuntarily. He rhythmically squeezed his inner muscles, and met John's thrusts even more vehemently. John was calling him clever and beautiful and perfect, peppering his compliments with exuberant swearing until he clamped his mouth down at the base of Sherlock's neck on the side and pounded into him as if his life depended on it. The third orgasm had taken much more time and was probably dry, but John was inside of him at the time and it didn't really matter. John kissed him languidly until he stopped twitching, Sherlock again using his muscles to wring every last bit from him.  John continued to give him sweet pecks as he undid the restraints and finally,  _finally_  he could hold him too. Sherlock took full advantage of that seemingly benign aspect. But it wasn't exactly as unimportant as previously thought. Because when John held him back so tightly, so securely, kissed him back when the urgency was removed, Sherlock had never felt this level of euphoria. Not even from the drugs he still craved to this day. He refused to release John. His John. His. And his partner seemed content to remain where he was until they fell into a deep sleep.

 

 

 

***

 

 

He awoke feeling a bit crusty, but all in all well-rested, though too comfortable to move. His nose was buried in John's hair and the man himself was fast asleep. He pressed his lips to his forehead several times and actually  _snuggled_  in. It was pathetic and annoying and absolutely necessary. He dozed a few more minutes, unreasonably upset with his full bladder. When it became unavoidable, he sighed again and, extremely gingerly, removed himself from their warm embrace in order to use the facilities, change into clean pants and pyjama bottoms, and wipe himself down. To his chagrin(and unfortunate expectations), he returned to an empty bed, catching him halfway up the stairs to his room. He stopped when Sherlock quietly said his name but didn't turn at first.

 

"Feeling better?" he asked in a bright tone that belied his obvious embarrassment. His ears and the nape of his neck were red. Sherlock never wanted that, for John to feel awkward around him. Especially after what had just transpired. It seemed obvious it turned into much more than it was meant to be at the start.

 

"Much."

 

"Good." He finally turned, seeming to have steeled himself and plastering his masking smile, the one he reserved for patients, to his face. It made Sherlock feel horribly weak to have succumbed to his desire for him, regardless of the enhancements. "You really should get some more rest. I understand if those couple of hours were all you needed though."

 

"I... are you coming back?" He thought he couldn't feel any more  _Less_ , but he was wrong. Asking that question, in that tone, made him seven years old again, Mycroft leaving for boarding school. He'd never forgive himself.

 

"I... um... I can if you like. I should just... erm put this whisky away." Why was he bringing it up to his room? He put a pin in the question and pushed it aside, for a spark of hope had bloomed in his chest. It was ridiculous. He fiddled with the pea green wallpaper helplessly. It would have been fine if John wasn't so abominably adorable. The drug must have still had a tentative hold on him.

 

"That show," he blurted. "The one with the rather genius, alien with the old police box for his space ship. It's not terrible."

 

"Okay... Did you... want me to bring the DVDs down?"

 

"Yes." John gave him another long look before turning and continuing his way up.

 

"Well you could have just asked," he heard John murmur, and found himself smiling at it. He stopped that immediately.

 

It was ridiculous, the amount of energy he involuntarily spent on anticipating John's return. When it began taking longer than he thought it should he nearly started to panic. But John had reappeared, setting the DVDs down in front of Sherlock on the coffee table with the instructions to 'make himself useful', then had begun gathering supplies. There was a fan for the window, a few snacks including fruit, candies, crisps, and a pitcher of a drink called Arnold Palmer; iced tea and lemonade mixed together that Sherlock reluctantly found delicious. He busied himself with setting up the show, finding the latest episode he'd not yet seen.

 

Now it was as if he were a young teen-ager, still growing into his own skin, unsure of every word or gesture. It was exhausting, because John behaved gingerly around him, but, when he moved the television in better view of the sofa, he served them the drink before just tucking himself up under Sherlock's left arm and employing the remote. Sherlock didn't even think about it when he lightly caressed John's fringe with his fingertips and planted random kisses in his hair. The first couple of times it happened, John stiffened almost imperceptibly, but almost immediately relaxed again. He was fed bits of fruit and crisps and was nearly distracted completely when John decided to work on a lolli. At the end of the episode, which he actually didn't figure out until halfway through instead of in the first ten minutes(granted...  _John_ ), he needed the loo again. John was thankfully still there, and accepted him back on the sofa easily enough, but hesitated to return to their former position.

 

"What?" Sherlock demanded, that stupid panic returning.

 

"I... can I ask you something without you getting all snippy?"

 

"What a ridiculous question."

 

"Snippy," he warned, cocking his head like the little raptor he was. 

 

"Sorry," he said quickly.

 

"I just... I need to know what this is. With us I mean." Sherlock blinked at him for a long time thinking he must have missed a social cue because it seemed obvious.

 

"What do you think it is?" he asked slowly.

 

"I don't know. I'm a bit... confused." That made two of them. "Is this just the drugs getting out of your system, or a new level of... relationship? Are we just finishing out the night or...?" He sighed in frustration and, as usual, decided on the direct approach. "Are we trying something here?" 

 

"I thought we already were something." That seemed to surprise John way too much.

 

"We only... When I came back from fetching the whisky you were asleep." Sherlock's bodily functions froze at that. "I just... I went to let you out of-of the... restraints and you..."

 

"I what?" Sherlock sat up straight and wove his hands together, letting them hang between his knees to affect an air of casualness, but if John was even looking, he would be able to see that his knuckles were white. No. This wasn't happening.

 

"You sort of grabbed me... in your sleep... and wouldn't let go." 

 

"I... Something else happened. Something that you're not telling me."

 

"I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."

 

"Too late."  

 

"Because it's fine. It really is."

 

"Tell me!" 

 

"You sort of... kissed me. Like, a proper snog." Sherlock frantically combed through all of his memories, down to the details of how John's skin felt and tasted, the weight of him in his lap... three powerful orgasms. There was no way that couldn't have been real. Yet... "I'm sorry."

 

"What for? I should be the one apologising, holding you against your will and forcing-"

 

"Stop it!" John commanded in that tone that brooked no argument. He used it sparingly and only when he wanted to make sure he was heard. "Don't you think I would be able to get away if I wanted to?" Nevertheless, the guilt was overwhelming and Sherlock moved suddenly to plant himself in his chair in order to remain out of reach. It didn't exactly work when John came to him and kneeled in front of him. It wasn't helping either. Dawn was in full bloom, the light doing things to John's form Sherlock could hardly look at for the attraction it cultivated within him. Of course he could get away. His past was fraught with 'getting away.' From becoming a doctor to get away from poverty, to joining the military to get away from his broken family, to the hundreds of times they got away from nearly impossible situations, John was well-versed in 'getting away'. "You kissed me and held me and we both fell asleep. That's it. It was comfortable. I didn't count it as anything much because we all do strange stuff in our sleep. You didn't, I don't know, violate me or anything. You needed a bit of comfort that I was glad to provide. It... It only went as far as the kiss." Sherlock could only look at him at first, thinking as hard as he could about how to navigate this situation. Lestrade might know, but he was probably sleeping off a hangover if John was anything to go by, and he would be incredibly grouchy anyway when awakened at dawn, no matter the reason. "What... what did you think happened?"

 

  
_Oh, only dry-humping, fellatio, and mind-numbing intercourse, each ending in a massive orgasm._  "Come here," he said instead. John stood and allowed himself to be lead by the wrist into his lap crosswise. As strange as it seemed, this was much more comforting. Perhaps it was the fact that John was still willing to touch him after all of that uncertainty. He put his arms around John's waist and lay his head on his right pectoral. They just held each other and breathed for a long moment, John caressing his hair before Sherlock lifted his head, seeking out a kiss that was every bit as delicious as the others. It should have answered John's questions, rid him of uncertainty about how Sherlock felt. But then, John always brought up past indiscretions, most notably Sherlock's time with Janine. He could see how John would be constantly unsure, if Sherlock was willing to go that far to solve a case. At this point, he was unsure why John even bothered asking anymore.

 

"Sherlock, I can't just... try," John said softly. "You'd have to either be with me or not. I have to have-" He cut him off with another searing kiss, during which he tasted the salt of a tear he had falling. It made him kiss John harder, more deeply, because his pain was unacceptable to him in this situation. And there was the rub, wasn't it? That situations did exist in which John's pain was acceptable to him, more situations than he wanted to admit. It was the foundation of his entire scheme to bring Moriarty down.

 

"All I can  _do_  is try," Sherlock said finally, leaning his forehead against John's, then, still holding his face in his hands, looking as deeply into his eyes as possible so he would be properly heard. "I've wanted this... wanted you for longer than I was even aware. The injection was just the catalyst. I've said it before. It's always been you, John." Sherlock leaned in for another lovely kiss. 

 

"I probably won't be able to go as far as we want right away," John admitted, regret permeating every syllable. "I've never gone past manual and oral... stuff."

 

"That's fine. In what was apparently a dream, I've had enough to last me a while." John gave him a sideways look he wanted to kiss off of his face.

 

"Great. Now I'm nervous about performing up to standard."

 

"No! No no." He did kiss John then. "No. There are no standards. You can do everything or nothing and I'll still want you." Was there some sort of truth serum element added to the mixture? Because he couldn't stop the words. He wanted to try lying, just to test the theory, but John's face, the expression that was a combination of relief and delight and anticipation warranted only truth.

 

"I do know a few things that could probably tide you over."

 

"As do I," he retorted. He couldn't believe he was once again starting to thicken at this talk and John's proximity, his kisses drawing him further out. He decided to start practicing control again if not full celibacy. He'd actually experienced those orgasms, according to the evidence in his pants when he woke. There was no reason to stretch out this emotional torture any longer. Sentiment was exhausting. "For now, however, shall we watch another episode?" John smiled at him as if he'd just cured cancer in a puppy and kissed him long and deeply again before hauling himself to his feet and walking back to the sofa, lovely arse slightly and enticingly jiggling.

 

 

 

                                                      


End file.
